


Slinging Graces

by newyorktopaloalto



Series: Differentials [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Character Development, Communication, Gen, Steve Rogers as a decent person, immortals being condescending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 04:06:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12100371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newyorktopaloalto/pseuds/newyorktopaloalto
Summary: Tony has managed to grasp the unavoidable fact that whenever weird, alien, magical bullshit happened, he tended to be, at the very least, within a few feet of the epicenter; this meant, for all intents and purposes, he was the one deemed the human expert by those wielding the aforementioned weird, alien, magical bullshit.There's also pocket universes and nightmare-fueled conversations, so that's something new, at least.





	Slinging Graces

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to do something different with my Tony and Steve characterizations. Tony is— Tony, but slightly to the left (not bad, I think, just different) and Steve is how I would like Steve Rogers to actually be in canon (any canon) plz&thx. 
> 
> Also, I wanted to write Thor and Loki [imagine Thranduil's arrogance, Elrond's paternalism (for Thor, at least), and Galadriel's know-it-all-ness.]

Bits of fractured scales hung in the air, atmosphere thick with the roiling, nebulous, gestures that were made in want of something he could never fully articulate— genius as purported, yet the movement has been stuck on a semicadence as his breath hung, a thin trail of haze eddying in the inconsistent breeze. He wanted to speak, his fingers tapping out, repetitious, his only answer— SOSOSOS— but the disassociation from his own actions made his motions incomprehensible to the figure— the smog (fog? delusion from the heat he could feel creeping in lines of sweat down his neck?) blocking his attempts, lackluster though they may be, to communicate. 

Communication seemed unnecessary after the moment he blinked and the figure was upon him, a swooping that furthered the fact that he could not fathom the thing before him. It snarled into his face— he couldn’t hear, and a hysterical thought to ask it to speak up crossed his mind— and before he could move his arms, before his mind had time to even offer a helpful suggestion to get out of this hellhole— the figure had its hands (the fingers withered and bony— a demonic presence down to the fire in its eyes, the only part of it that he could see with any manner of clarity)— around his neck. The chord lingered as an entirely different sort of daze entered his mind, and his back hit— the last bit of air escaping his already damaged body, he couldn’t last five minutes without air, he couldn’t last two minutes without it, he was nothing without the titanium alloy mix that now preceded his every step— the wall. 

The scene changed around him the same moment the grip around his neck loosened and Tony let out a wheezing cough in order to buy time to look around the new location— and also because he was not being hyperbolic when faced with his physical limitations. 

“You know,” he managed once his throat felt a little less sandpaper-y, “I appreciate the theatrics— you’re like a magical super villain, I feel as though theatricality is both expected and desired— but the whole ‘I’m like a demonic Skeletor and I’m going to fight you through a haze of nightmare bullshit in order to further throw you off your game’ thing? Very Guild, and I don’t mean that in a positive way.”

He chanced a look at the figure hovering— actually hovering and it was honestly just not fair for Tony to have nothing to counter that pretentious bullshit that _he_ should have been owning, not whatever this Dementor ripoff was doing with it— and rolled up from his knees, a different wall than the one that he had been thrust against earlier now holding his weight for the moment it took to get his legs out from under him. 

“Who are you, anyways? Unless you actually look like the love child between the girl from the Exorcist, Nosferatu, and a blurry Polaroid— you know you’re not supposed to actually shake those things, it’ll run the ink.” 

“You know who I am, Anthony Stark, and you know why I am here.” 

Nodding, he let the cryptic answer go entirely unaddressed. A glance to his phone, miraculously having been safely stored in his pocket when having been transported; there was no signal. 

“Where are we?” 

“Pocket universe.” The gravel had disappeared from the voice, and in the next moment the hovering had also ceased. 

“Why?” 

“Because I find myself quite opposed to being listened in on by whatever humans deem as privacy monitors. Really, you _are_ the worst sort of mortal, all avarice and grandeur with little of your race’s more attributable qualities— namely, equating magic with your concept of Hel and eternal damnation.” 

“You should try the witch burnings, or the Inquisition.” 

“I have.”

A lazy hand wave and their surroundings changed once more— Tony wondered if the change in location was a planned affair, but Loki’s minute derision gave nothing away and Tony eventually chalked the switch to one that the immortal thought of as more forthright for their conversation. 

“Do you know where we are?” 

The wall was gone and Tony tried not to feel discombobulated. 

“Space.” 

“Yes, very good— I cannot believe you are considered a pinnacle of humanity. I would consider it insulting, but with every interaction I’ve had with your lot, I cannot help but agree with your millions of unwashed masses.”

Tony sighed and tried to remind himself that Loki was an ally, or at least someone who hadn’t really done anything terrible to the Avengers or the Earth in particular (there was, really, no point in making mention of the time he had imprisoned Thor in a hole in the ground on the bottom of the ocean after, apparently, learning Greek history and thought that method perfect for his personal gift in taking over Asgard. Thor, much to his chagrin, found the entire debacle ‘charming’.) 

“Why did you bring me to space?” 

“There is a war coming and your species is well-suited towards throwing itself at the problem. At least, so your history has shown.” 

The god lounged against… nothing, it was stupid gravity manipulation and Tony found himself simultaneously annoyed and impressed.

“You want us as cannon fodder?” 

“You may call it whatever you wish.” 

Still vaguely suspicious— they were facing nothing apart from a vast canvas of stars— he glanced up at Loki, who seemed entirely unimpressed at the extreme ethical stance he had taken; Tony supposed that to an immortal alien, his own belief in Earth above else was a mite anthropocentric, but it didn’t stop him from his inquiry. 

“Does Thor know?” 

“My brother?” Loki actually looked startled for a moment, throwing Tony a bemused stare, before retaining impassivity once more. 

“My brother has known for thousands of years, as have I. Our longevity, Stark, may make us unequipped to deal with petty, mortal issues, but this—” he gestured to the universe around them, enveloping them in a bubble of silence broken only by their own movements, “has been culminating for eons.” 

“Why are you telling me? Why not Thor, or even a human representative? Why you, a pocket dimension, and the middle of space? Why aren’t we supposed to know this and why are you risking it?” 

Loki didn’t answer for a moment. 

“Your intelligence continues to be… more than negligible.” 

Tony refrained from rolling his eyes as to not insult the other (despite the courtesy not being applied to his own person) and was all the more glad for it when Loki continued. 

“Thor and most of Asgard is of the opinion that Midgardians need not be informed. I assume due to some paternalistic nature he regards you all with, but there are groups that are of the opinion that knowledge is power, and even if you are not advanced enough to fully realize the implications of the war coming, you still have the right to be informed. 

“Also, like I stated before, humans are notoriously adept at throwing their bodies at a problem until something gives.” 

“Okay, how virtuosic of you. What’s the catch?” 

“No catch,” Loki hummed, a half-grin shaped into more of a snarl coloring his face, “but I need access to the Avengers’ raw data.” 

“Awww, poor God can’t break into a mainframe?” 

Loki’s smile turned bright, dangerous, and he didn’t need illusory fire in his eyes for Tony to see it.

“Sometimes, Stark, to discuss is to politick. And thank you for your cooperation.” 

“I never answered you,” Tony protested, and Loki’s half-pitying, half-triumphant stare was the last thing he saw before—

“Sir, there is code being written into my mainframe.” 

JARVIS, curt bordering on panicked, and once more in his laboratory. 

“I’m sorry, J, I know it’s not natural— what do you mean _written in_?” 

The voice of a God (and really, the disembodied voice of someone once considered an actual God was so Moses, it wasn’t even funny) answered him. 

“I am placing inside of your progeny, parameters in order to further monitor the situation. It will do no harm, physical or otherwise. It will, however, alert both you and myself, if something— untoward— happens in this realm.” 

“So you’ll just be popping in every time the bell goes ding?” 

Loki appeared from— the metal hull where JARVIS’ mainframe was kept, and Tony barely managed to reign in his shudder at the fact. 

“It will alert you twice,” he corrected, and if Tony didn’t know better he would have said the Asgardian was making a joke. 

“And no, only when my scheduling permits it.” 

So it was a joke. And here he was, thinking Loki was quite incapable of anything other than chilling wit. 

“The files will be helpful. And tell no one else about this.” 

“Yeah,” Tony agreed wryly, flicking through the code as soon as it set, “wasn’t planning on it. I’m pretty sure no one here really likes you.” 

“I am fairly certain I could not care less,” Loki replied, and in an overly dramatic spin, he flashed away. 

“Thus sayth the Lord,” Tony half-sung, never more glad for the fact that no one was there to scold him for blasphemy. 

“Hey, J, execute file extraction— I wanna see what Salazar Slytherin over there sent us.”

* * *

Never had he been more glad that he installed a wet bar into the mansion’s sitting area than he was at the moment; being able to side-step the rest of the Avengers wasn’t usually in his plans, but then there were days like today— the thousands of wars he had no idea existed, let alone could believe humans had any place in, spinning in his head (and humanity thought dealing with super heroes and villains was bad) without respite— when he could have nothing to do with them to keep his own fragile balance. 

The vodka didn’t even have the gall to burn going down his throat but despite his want of cheap liquor, he had to commend whichever CEO had presented the bottle to him as the sort of corporate bribe he received at least three of per day— this was pretty good stuff. Rummaging through the cupboards above the crystal glassware, he took another swig— a subtle warmth descended into his gut— and he felt his body relax from the keyed up state Loki’s information had put him in. 

“How long for Thai?” 

“75 minutes,” JARVIS responded, and Tony grimaced. 

“Is there anyone in the main kitchen?” 

“No, Sir, but Mister Barton and Miss Van Dyne will be finished training in approximately half of an hour, and will be migrating to the kitchen for sustenance immediately after.” 

“Thanks,” Tony replied, making his way, post-haste, to the kitchen and his own sustenance. 

He made it two more shots, half a flight of stairs and a hallway, before being waylaid. Physically. Turning a blind corner and hitting Steve Rogers square in the chest. Because of course it was Steve. 

“Sorry, Cap,” he grunted out, a slight wheeze to his voice evidence to where impact took place. 

“It’s fine,” Steve started, “it’s a blind corn— Oh.” 

The dual recrimination and disappointment was evident in Steve’s tone, but it took Tony tracing his glare down his arm, to where his fingers were grasping the bottle of vodka loosely about its neck, for him to piece the metaphorical puzzle together. Unlike whilst in the company of a tempestuous immortal, he rolled his eyes visibly at the tempestuous super soldier (which, half dozen of one, six of the other, really, but Steve at least didn’t have magic and access to pocket universes with no cell service.) 

“I like how now you’re going to blame me.” 

“I wasn’t,” Steve’s mouth tightened with disapproval and Tony’s grip tightened around the bottle, “but I don’t think you should be drinking.” 

“I can tell everyone to not drink around you if it makes you uncomfortable,” Tony replied, trying to decide where the bounds of his consideration ended. 

“No, no, it’s just—” Tony waited, not feeling enough like an asshole to take another drink, “drinking is dangerous. You know, considering your disposition and physicality.” 

“You’re right,” Tony agreed easily, “but like the little labels they put on the bottle, I drink responsibly.

“Well,” he amended, “mostly responsibly.” 

“You’re drinking straight from the bottle,” Steve pointed out, and at that (and with his remembrance came the infinite universe that Loki decided to grace— terrify— him with) he took another drink. 

“I had a rough day,” he tried to quip, his vocal stylings much more subdued than his aim. 

“Tony…” and Steve hesitated, “are you an alcoholic?” 

Tony barked out a laugh, starting his walk to the kitchen once more, and firmly decided that he needed to stock his lab with food so he wouldn’t have to deal with this shit when he just really needed to be left alone. 

“J, am I an alcoholic?” 

“While I do admit, Sir, your rather… complicated relationship with alcohol, I cannot, in good grace I believe is how the expression goes, state that you are an alcoholic. I have, of course, several protocols in my coding— which you developed in my infancy— for monitoring and assurance.” 

He went silent then, petulant in the way he only became when someone dared question his competence— no matter the fact that Steve would have no reason to know of JARVIS’ coding. 

“There you have it, Cap,” he finished, their entrance into the kitchen coincidental (but all the more pleasing) to his rebuff. 

“Oh.” The word was different that time, and Tony felt a jolt of sympathy at the slightly cowed expression on Steve’s face. 

“Don’t worry about it, I know you have a complicated relationship as well,” Tony capitulated, “but at the same time, you can’t force what you would do on what others are doing.” 

“I wasn’t—”

Steve stopped himself and Tony nodded. 

“You looked like you wanted to knock the bottle out of my hand and force me to mainline water.” 

“I— you’re right, I was going to.”

He deflated all at once, and Tony perched on the table next to where Steve was currently staring at his hands. 

“Drink?” he offered, a little surprised when Steve took the bottle and downed the rest of it in three seconds flat. 

“Anything?” 

“No. Never will.” 

A pause. 

“It reminds me of being helpless.” 

Tony hummed in acknowledgement. 

“I shouldn’t put my own issues onto you,” Steve finally managed to get out, and though Tony didn’t believe him, he would have to give the benefit of the doubt. 

“Anyways, what happened today?” 

“The usual bullshit,” Tony replied, hopping onto the floor and clapping Steve on the shoulder before moving over to the counter— anything regarding Loki would be something he would normally inform Steve of, but the magnitude of the issue prevented him from furthering panic until he had more information; Loki was right, knowledge was power— but misapplied knowledge at the incorrect time could be devastating. 

“Do you want some food? That’s what I was coming up for in the first place…”

* * *

“Mr. Odinson has landed on the lawn,” JARVIS dutifully reported, and Tony closed up his windows from his browsing— the number of alien encounters he had read was extraordinary, even for all the crazy pants conspiracy sites he knew existed— and debated whether or not Thor counted as ‘nobody’— and not in the Odysseus way. 

“Can you ask him to talk when he has a moment?” he finally decided on, stretching out his limbs as he unfolded himself from the chair, massaging his ribs from the lingering pain from when a giant bear-turtle hybrid had attacked him a few weeks ago. 

“He is free and has expressed his desire to speak with you as well,” JARVIS responded, “and is currently on his way to your current location.” 

There was hardly time to unlock the door before Thor sauntered in. 

“Anthony Stark,” he acknowledged, and in some ways Tony felt his condescension greater than that of Loki’s. 

“Thor, Prince of Asgard,” Tony intoned back. 

“My brother has told me that he gave you privileged information regarding an incoming incursion.” 

“He has.” 

“And I trust that you will divulge your information only when it becomes necessary. These Midgardians, after all, can become rather excitable. I would prefer not to have to deal with overzealous governmental organizations until I must.” 

“I’m sure you would prefer to not deal with Midgardians at all,” Tony remarked airily. 

“Nay. Your kind are most interesting— amusing, but rather innovative. ’Tis intriguing, what you can do with so little.” 

Thor seemed utterly oblivious to anything resembling paternalism, and Tony heaved a sigh— inaudible and unnoticeable to anything except for JARVIS’ monitoring systems. 

“Yes, I suppose so,” he agreed instead, clearing his throat after a moment of silence. 

“But that information, that’s what I actually wanted to talk to you about,” he stated and stifled a groan at Thor’s wave of continuance. 

“What’s the timeline on this? From that Loki implied, this has been going on for thousands of years. What makes you think anything will actually happen within my lifetime?”

“Nothing,” Thor replied with a shrug and affable grin, “but my brother and I find you to be a man able to comprehend the long-term as few other mortals can.” 

“Thanks,” Tony answered, literally biting the sides of his tongue so he wouldn’t say anything else. 

A nod and Thor continued: 

“We needed a— liaison if you will— here, in the case of a situation coming up that Asgard would only have Heimdall to rely upon. Not that he is not reliable, just that he has many things in the universe he must observe at any given time.” 

“So you needed, like, a way station. An information gathering apparatus. Actually, you just needed JARVIS’ complete access to the internet.” 

Thor, to his credit, did not bother to respond in any attempt to deceive. 

“Originally. But you, Anthony Stark, do have a point of view that is unparalleled— and different enough from a more… durable race that your insight may prove invaluable.” 

Tony finally let himself laugh— some in humor, but mostly in exasperated disbelief. “Well, thanks for softening that blow, I honestly do appreciate it. I will also endeavor to do my best in liaison-ing with Asgard. Or, you know, whatever.” 

He knew that Thor knew he was being— not combative, exactly, but purposefully needling, sure. The both of them ignored it in favor of exchanging various pleasantries for long enough to be considered polite, before Thor took off for wherever he felt he next needed to be. 

After, there was nothing stopping him from resting his head against his table— for just a moment until he began to work once more— in exhaustion.

* * *

“Would you, um—” a throat cleared and Tony turned around to squint at the shadow speaking, “would you like some company?” 

“Time’s it?” he asked, the waver in his tone betraying the fact that sleeping would be much better for his disposition at the moment. 

“Like 3.30,” Steve replied, moving his way closer to Tony as he returned to staring bleakly at the cup of coffee that had cooled long before he even thought about taking a sip. 

“What’s up?” It was hesitant, and the question sounded awkward on Steve’s tongue, but Tony found himself almost eager to unload— at least something— onto someone other than JARVIS. 

“I had— and it sounds dumb out loud,” he ran a hand through his hair and shot a wry grin in Steve’s direction. Steve, to his consideration, only scooted closer in a stool, one hand on Tony’s nape as he tilted into an ‘active listening’ position. 

“I’m sure it’s not dumb.” 

“Yes, thank you, but it really does— I had a nightmare.” A pause, and then an ostensible outline of the dream in hypothetical. “What would you do if you saw something no one else did? Not like a hallucination, but like you know something no one else does. And you don’t know when it’ll be important— or even if it will be— and your information probably won’t be enough anyway.” 

He stopped himself from commenting further, a slight hitch in his breath as he gripped the handle of the mug tighter— the solidity grounded him to the present. 

“Tony, you know what happened last month with Reed’s— injuries,” there was a hesitation on the word and honestly, same, “were his own fault, right?” 

But better for him to think it was about that… 

“I know, I just— I felt as though I could have done something else. 

“But, honestly, answer my questions.” 

Steve thought for a moment, his free hand tapping out vague motions of patterns on the counter— little ripples spread through Tony’s coffee and his mind flashed onto a looming threat, the ripple pattern indicating its proximity to his location— and stopped himself on (a coincidence but somehow managing to make Tony smirk) the semicadence; Steve didn’t seem to notice. 

“I want to say that I would say something, that if it had even a chance at becoming something bigger later, whoever it needs to be said to has the right to know. Even if, I think, it could turn into nothing. 

“But I’m going to be honest with you— I don’t know what I would do. I think it depends on the situation; I can see myself having to keep a secret from someone, I’ve actually had to multiple times, and sometimes it’s for the best but sometimes there’s regret after. It’s the same, though,” he sighed and his hand briefly tightened on the back of Tony’s neck— it was something else that felt grounding, “if you did tell— sometimes it’s the right thing and sometimes there’s regret. 

“With Richards, I think the best thing was not to tell, and I don’t think you should regret it.” 

He paused and slid a look to Tony, who was doing his absolute best to find nothing more interesting than the patterns in the marble countertop. 

“If it’s something else, I trust in you to know what’s best with the information you have.” 

“You’re, uh,” it was Tony’s turn to clear his throat, “more astute than I sometimes give you credit for.” 

“I think we’re both a lot more than the things we give each other credit for.” 

Tony narrowed his eyes at Steve, who, for his part, looked vaguely embarrassed at the analyzation. He wanted to ask him who he was— if he were a skrull or shapeshifter or some supernatural being— and what he had done with the actual Steve Rogers. He also thought that would be unnecessary when the captain was trying to trust someone other than himself. 

“I agree,” was all he responded with and was rewarded with Steve’s bright (and the super soldier serum must have brightened his teeth, because that was not natural for the 1940s, Tony was 99% positive) grin. 

“You’re very agreeable at the ass-end of the morning,” Tony remarked further, both unable and unwilling to keep his mouth shut. He was sure the agreeability would get him through. 

“I could say the same for you,” Steve replied easily, and smiled further at Tony’s huffed-out laugh. 

“True.” 

He saluted with his mug and took a long swig, his eyes going a little wonky at the taste. 

“Room temperature,” he managed, foisting the mug to Steve who, true to form, tasted it to confirm, “delicious.” 

There was no trace of sympathy as Steve hacked up a lung at the flavor. 

“Delicious,” Steve agreed. And, like the imbecile Tony always knew he was, took another sip. 

“Is this like an alpha male thing? Or like a 30s thing?” 

“Neither,” Steve muttered, flushing red as he finished the mug, “it’s an ‘I don’t want to waste the coffee’ thing.” 

“Don’t you hate how sugary mine is?” 

“Yes.” 

“You are a brave man, Steve Rogers. A brave, foolish man.” 

“I’ve been called worse,” he replied, and Tony watched him rinse out the mug an place it on the rack next to the sink. “Are you staying up?” 

“Are you staying up with me?” 

Steve held out a hand to help Tony up. He stared at it for a moment before taking it in his own. 

“I was thinking about it,” Steve replied as he hauled Tony to his feet. “I mean, if you want company.” 

Tony nodded and led Steve over to one of the drawing rooms— the television in there hooked up to a projector that turned the entire wall into a screen. 

“Let’s watch how things are made. I have learned to make so many things on nights I can’t sleep, and one day one of things I now know how to make might be useful.” 

“I don’t think knowing how to make a bicycle helmet will be particularly useful to you,” Steve argued— and Tony shot off a witty repartee, knowing that, for once, their argument was filled more with levity than anything else.

* * *

There was no pretense this time; Tony was alone in his lab one second, and the next second he was blinking into a starry void and Loki’s— enthusiastic as always— apparel. Some of those straps, he was absolutely positive, were non-operable. 

“Hi,” he stated, working out the kink between his shoulders by rolling them more than he usually would— never let it be said that he would not try to one-up theatricality— in order to clearly express his annoyance at being picked up apropos of nothing. 

“What’s up, Minor Chord? I thought our meetings would no longer consist of pocket universes, but I can see where my error came in with that line of thinking. Because,” he laughed a little at himself, duly ignoring Loki’s unimpressed and almost derisive stare, “it’s still a secret from, like, every single person I know.”

He stopped. 

“You know, I like you better than your brother.” 

A ghost of a smile— or, at least less bloodthirsty than his usual smirk— formed on Loki’s face. He supposed that even Gods were found wanting when compared to someone else, and if Tony were more naïve (more self-effacing or masochistic) he would continue on with a quip about not being so different from one another, in the end; he was nothing of the sort, and so Loki continued with their conversation. 

“I find that updating you in person will be a modicum more tolerable than slogging through your… electronics, in order to access your textual files.” 

“Well, if you’re still saying it all like that, then yeah, sure, I totally get it,” Tony agreed easily, wondering if Loki felt just as pathetic going to a mortal for conversation as Tony did when he crafted a robot to be his friend. 

“Quite,” Loki sniffed out haughtily, and Tony called himself out on hypocrisy— this secret with Loki and his early morning conversation with Cap had been the highlights of his month— because he wouldn’t give up on losing in a conversation for anything (and that, he didn’t know to attribute to masochism or his life-long goal to become better— it was, most likely, a little of column a, a little of column b.) 

“Have you read through everything I gave you, Anthony Stark?” he continued, and Tony nodded, wishing that this pocket dimension had a wall like the last one, it was rather difficult to get comfortable— or at least fake leisure— when magic was the only thing that could oppose gravity. 

“How long we going to be here for?” he asked instead, conceding the fact that he would lose the physical battle of wills or whatever this was— it was most likely Loki unable to fathom consideration for others. 

“I’m just asking because if it’s going to be awhile, I’d appreciate a chair or something— it’s easier to pay attention to you when I don’t have to constantly shift on my feet to stay awake.” 

“Ah, yes,” Loki stated agreeably, flicking his wrist to magic up seating, “I do so forget your sort’s fragility.” 

“You know,” Tony argued mildly, unable to put more than a pretense of effort into this particular devil’s advocate, “scientifically and evolutionarily, humans are actually quite durable.” It was difficult to say that, and believe it, sitting across from a bored immortal who sprawled on his chaise lounge like a tyrannical king. 

“I am sure.” He was being humored, and that should not have caused a thrill of _challenge_ to bury itself in his spine, but there he was, rearing and ready to go for round three. 

“Back to the salient point, however, and my question, Anthony Stark.”

Tony was startled to realize he had quite thoroughly forgotten the true matter at hand in the heat of the match. 

“Yeah, I read everything you sent. Some pretty crazy stuff, if I may say. Like, I cannot believe that Scientologists have the whole ‘eons long intergalactic, space war’ thing right, but goddamn if they were not on the money.” 

“Did you understand it?” 

At that, Tony was not quite sure how to answer. 

“I think I was able to garner most of what I didn’t immediately understand through context. There might have been terms and concepts and whatnot that I’ve never seen before, but,” he shrugged to further his point, “there’s a reason I’m considered an exception, right?

“But enough of me talking, how about you answer my question: what’d you bring me here for today? Just a check-in, or did I miss two beeps somewhere?” 

“‘Beeps?’”

“You said you coding would beep twice when it picked up something.” He demonstrated, he was sure to Loki’s consternation, by making two quick beeps. 

Loki blinked at him, inscrutable once more. “It would be slightly faster… _beeping_ than that.” 

Tony blinked back— it was an almost perfect imitation. “Ah.” 

The sound of silence overtook them for almost a full minute, neither quite willing to give into the atmosphere and be the first to say something. Finally, because they both knew whose turn it was, Loki heaved out a breath and began to speak, looking pained at even having to.

* * *

Walking into the sun room, Tony was surprised to see one of the lounge chairs already occupied; there was a part of him— not insignificant, but not an overwhelming majority of his synapses like before— that wanted to leave it be, go somewhere else, and everyone could just deal with their own personal shit. 

“Want company?” he asked instead, pulling up the chair next to Steve’s when the other nodded. “Can’t sleep?”

Steve was silent for a moment. “Nightmare.” 

“About what?” 

A sigh and Tony glanced over to see Steve shifting his face into his hands. 

“Another life.” 

If Tony were anyone else, he would probably be giving some modicum of physical comfort right then. As it stood, he was reduced to making sympathetic noises as he pat Steve’s knee, awkwardly. 

“Worse or better than this one?” 

He paused at that. 

“I’m sorry, that was too far. I shouldn’t—”

“I don’t know.”

Tony stopped at the interruption; Steve’s tone was almost plaintive— it made Tony grip his knee just that little bit tighter. 

“I don’t know because I was dreaming a life that could have been, and— I think this one might be better. And it shouldn’t be, and I am _not_ okay with it by any means, but…” 

Steve shrugged, a little hopeless; Tony stayed, a little helpless. They sat, side-by-side, until morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!


End file.
